Epilogophila: Undercover McCormick
by owlcroft
Summary: Once the guys get home from the press conference, what happens between them?


A/N: This one is dedicated to two people who really deserve a lot more than a silly story. Thank you!

EPILOGOPHILIA: UNDERCOVER MCCORMICK

by

Owlcroft

"You gonna wear that thing the rest of your life?" Hardcastle's tone was less grouchy than curious, but the grouch factor was still there.

McCormick looked up, grinning, from the lawnmower he'd been tinkering with. "Nah. I'll probably take it off when I shower up."

"Hmph." The judge strolled over to the workbench cluttered with tools, oily rags, and miscellaneous debris. He idly examined a vice grip wrench then said without turning, "You know, a medal doesn't make you a better person. You're still the same guy you always were."

"Yeah, but now everybody can tell what a great guy I am." Mark grunted with effort as he tried to loosen a nut. "Hey, hand me that can of oil, wouldja." He extended a hand.

Hardcastle handed the small can over and peered with interest at the upside-down lawnmower. "What's that doohickey? The carburetor?"

The man with the medal sneered affectionately. "That's the oil pan, Judge." He managed to loosen the nut and remove it. "Besides, I remember _you_ getting all photogenic for the press. That big toothy grin of yours, waving to everybody. It's not like you ducked out on the public thanks."

The judge snorted, then shrugged. "I didn't care about the thanks or the press. I just wanted to make that jackass look like the jackass he is."

"I kinda noticed. Frank had to leave the press room, y'know. He was trying so hard not to laugh I think he pulled a rib muscle." McCormick reached for a rag and wiped oil from his hands.

A brief silence fell. Hardcastle moved back to the workbench and leaned against it. "Speaking of Frank . . . You really think nobody appreciates all the Tonto stuff you do?"

It was Mark's turn to shrug as he finished removing the oil pan.

"He was telling me that a lot of guys on the force were impressed at the way you got in there and nailed those creeps." The judge swiped a thumb across his nose. "They're kinda keeping quiet about it 'cause they feel like they shoulda known something hinky was going on, but they are grateful to you."

"Grateful to both of us," was the muttered reply as a curly head bent over the mower innards.

"Yeah, sure." Hardcastle looked off into the distance through the garage window. He took a breath to speak, then shook his head slightly and subsided.

McCormick shot him a glance. "What?"

"Ah, nothing. Well," the older man rubbed at his chin, then squared up his shoulders and spoke in a patently-false casual tone, "maybe I don't go around handing out medals and stuff, but . . ." He shoved his hands into his pockets and lifted his chin, "I do know what's going on and . . . um, I mean, you do some fairly dangerous stuff for me, and . . . I mean, for the good of the general public, and . . . I just want ya to know that I realize . . ."

Mark had stopped working mid-way through the judge's tortuous speech and was by now openly staring at him. "Are you trying to tell me you appreciate me? Is this your way of giving me a medal?"

"Nah, nothing like that." A little shuffling took place, then Hardcastle spoke again. "Well, maybe."

"'Cause you don't have to, y'know." McCormick bent industriously over the oil pan. "It's all part of the job. Besides, you're always in on it, too. When I'm the lead, you're the back-up and vicey-versey." He wrinkled his nose at the sludge build-up in the oil pan. "So give yourself a medal while you're at it, Hardcase."

"Aw, I don't need any medals. But I thought you might think they were pretty important. I mean, the way you're showing that one off." The judge waved a hand at the gaudy silver ornament.

"Nah." Mark set the oil pan aside and rose, trying to dust off his jeans with grimy hands. "It's just I never had a medal before."

Hardcastle stared at him. "Don't Catholics get Sunday School medals? You know, with all the bars and stuff?" He indicated his chest in pantomime.

"Huh? Oh, I know what you mean. Nope, we didn't get those." McCormick reached for a relatively clean rag for his hands. "But it's nice to have this one. Just as a symbol, y'know. Public recognition and all." He busied himself with the rag, slightly turned away from the older man. "I don't need a medal for things that are really important."

Another short silence occurred, broken by Hardcastle clapping his hands together briskly. "Well! I gotta go get the grill fired up. You gonna be cleaned up by six?"

"Oh, sure." Mark grinned at him. "I figure if I stare at my medal for half an hour that leaves me a good ten minutes for a shower."

_finis_


End file.
